Heaven Can Wait
by Livyathan
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring Dean and Castiel, and sometimes Sam.
1. Rain

Rain

—ж—

Dean choked back another sob and hugged the torn, filthy trench coat closer to his chest. Tears danced in white streaks down his dirtied cheeks as rain battered the outside of his beloved Impala. It wasn't right. This…feeling of emptiness, like someone had torn his heart from his chest and left him to bleed, it was wrong; utterly and completely wrong. Burying his face in the coat, Dean inhales. He smells earth, and fire, leather and something else, something that was uniquely Castiel. Something that Dean had come to miss in his everyday life. But it was too late. Cas was gone, and it was his entire fault. He had driven the angel away, forced him to carry out his every beck and call and had failed Cas when the angel had needed Dean the most. This was his fault, all of it. Another breath and Dean let the last of his walls crumble. 'Carry on My Wayward Son' played softly from the Impala's radio.


	2. Feels Like Home

Feels Like Home

—ж—

He clutched the black sweater beneath his fingers like nothing he had ever felt before. His other hand reached up to grasp the angel's shoulder as a pair of comfortably familiar arms wound around his neck. Dean buried his reddening face in the crook of Castiel's neck and bit his lower lip. The trench coat he had come to love so much had been slung around his shoulders in a fleeting attempt to stave off the encroaching cold. A pair of chilled lips gently brushed his cheek, and husky voice echoed in his ear, "It's alright Dean. I forgive you."

Dean shook his head, and could only allow Castiel to pull him closer as Castiel's shoulder suddenly became damp with Dean's tears.


	3. Sunshine

Sunshine

—ж—

"Dean, Dean, come on," Sam's muted voice could be heard through Dean's heavy oak bedroom door. It had been a week, and still Sam didn't get the hint. "You've got to come out of there sometime, Dean. It's already been a week." Dean scoffed at his brother's voice and rolled over in the now very empty and very lonely bed that occupied the center of his room. His curtains had been pulled shut since that fateful day, and he could see small streaks of sunlight through bleary green eyes. Castiel had loved the sunlight; he always said it brought with it the chance for forgiveness, for redemption, for a fresh start.

But not now; now the sunlight only reminded Dean of the thing he had lost, the one person who had truly loved him in a sense that Dean had never previously known. And what had Dean done? He'd driven him away, that's what. Rolling onto his back, a glint of sunlight bouncing off something caught his eye. It was a picture frame holding an image of Castiel and himself sitting on the hood of the Impala, smiling and covered in blood and grime. 'The good old days,' Dean thought. But those, too where gone now.

"Dean? Dean, man, listen," Sam's muffled voice filled the room again. "Dean… I'm sorry, alright? I really am, man. But you need to get out of bed. He's not coming back, and we have a job to do."

He sighed and pulled himself out of bed. It was back to the same old life, only without the knowledge that he had an angel looking out for him. The idea that Castiel was never coming back weighed on him further, and was the final wedge in his already broken heart.


	4. Whiskey River

Whiskey River  
>—ж—<p>

Sam didn't know who his brother was. Maybe he had died when they where children, maybe he had run away with John and they were successful demon hunters somewhere that wasn't here. But the man in the other room, waist-deep in whiskey bottles, wasn't the man he had looked up to as a child, the one who always drove the Impala and always had a quick, if corny, comment for every situation. The man in the living room was sitting hunched over on the worn leather couch, good old _No. 7 Tennessee whiskey_ clutched in white knuckles. Dirty tears stained flush cheeks. He had shouted himself hoarse to the picture resting on the table before him, begging, pleading for the angel to come back, that he was sorry, that he had been wrong and that they could fix everything, they _had_ to fix everything. Sam would swear to outsiders that his brother had officially gone insane. Only, falling in love with an ethereal being in a mortal vessel wasn't necessarily insane. Surely there were stranger things, right?

Sam shook his head, and stepped into the living room. Dean had finally passed out strewn across the couch, the whiskey bottle loosely clutched in one hand, ready to crash against the hardwood floors, the other tightly clutched the frame he had spent the past week screaming at to his chest. Carefully, Sam pried the bottle from Dean's hands, and threw a worn blanket over his older brother. He dared not attempt to reclaim the picture frame. Gathering the discarded whiskey bottles, he wandered back into the kitchen, and prepared to pull Dean from the whiskey river he had nearly drowned in when Dean awoke the following morning.


	5. Lakeside Talks

Lakeside Talks

"Why the long face, kid?" He was not even remotely surprised when the blonder man sat down on the bench next to him. He had been in the park for a few hours now, trying to figure out a plan to pull his brother from the hole that he had painstaking dug himself. He was quiet for a while, slowly sipping on a mug of his favorite coffee and running a nervous hand through his shaggy hair.

"I've lost him, Gabriel. All that hard work, the torture, the torment, and I've lost him to a scruffy angel in a trench coat who thinks he can play god." They were the only words he had willing surrendered in the past four days, and the only ones that Gabriel needed to hear. Since Castiel had come to earth, he had been keeping an eye on his younger brother from a safe, if somewhat conspicuous, distance. And this was exactly why. He had wanted to keep his brother safe, for he knew the darkest parts of men's hearts. He knew that they bloomed with hatred and desire and selfishness, everything that Castiel had never seen or known. And then Castiel had met the Winchesters, and everything was different. Because there was no hatred, no malice, only pain, and regret, and loss and the urge to just find their father and be a family again.

Gabriel sat back against the bench, and gazed out at the lake before the pair of them. He remembered Castiel saying that Dean had taken him to a lake like this once, and they had spent all day finishing and drinking beers. Just relaxing, just being themselves. He knew his brother was not coming back, that he had found it easier to overthrow their father and play god all for the sake of one pitiful college-dropout-turned-drunk. Glancing over, he saw the same conclusion written all across the younger Winchester's face. Sam knew Castiel was gone, and he had taken Dean's sanity with him.

"I know," was all Gabriel had said, leaning over to pat Sam roughly on the shoulder. "We both know Castiel isn't coming back, Sam. So you've got to pick up the pieces of your brother's life, and put him back together the best you can." Standing up, Gabriel cracked his back and turned,

"Call me if you need anything, kid, even if it's just a smile."

By the time Sam turned to thank him, Gabriel was long gone.


	6. Whiskey and You

Whiskey and You  
>—ж—<br>_"One's the devil and one keeps driving me insane. At time I wonder if they ain't both the same. One's a liar that helps hide me from my pain, and one's a long hard, bitter truth. And that's the difference between the whiskey and you…"  
><em>- Tim McGraw, "Whiskey and You"  
>—ж—<p>

In the days since he'd been abandoned, Jack Daniel's had become his new very best friend. More specifically, _No. 7 Tennessee Whiskey_, his very favorite whiskey. Dean sat sideways on his large, empty bed, starring at the dresser across the room. The first bottle he had cracked since Castiel's leaving sat on the dresser top next to the ring that Castiel had left behind. Behind it, a large group photo of his friends, his family. Bobby smiled reluctantly back at him from just over his ring. Reaching down, he grabbed his latest bottle, one in a long line of many, and took a deep swig. He grimaced as the alcohol burned the back of his throat.

Was Castiel worth it? Was he really worth these demons that danced gleefully through his heart? The demons that caused these course tears every night when he drank himself to sleep, where those worth it? He honestly didn't know. Once upon a time, he had thought different of Castiel, thought he had even…

Dean drank another mouthful of whiskey, before throwing the half-empty bottle against the nearby wall. He choked as a sob tore itself from his throat, and buried his face in calloused hands. Castiel had gone from his ally, to his friend, to his devil and his downfall. It was much easier to buy the whiskey, Dean had reasoned with himself, than it was to attempt to seek out Castiel and beg forgiveness. Forgiveness that Dean knew would never come. Not after what had happened, not after he had treated Castiel like that. Gabriel had been right. Castiel had loved him, fought for him. Rebelled for him. And how did Dean thank him? With nothing but harsh words, a cold, bitter truth.

It was a truth that had come back to haunt Dean in the end. Even Sam had begun to give up on him. His own brother had left him to drown in this whiskey river.

But that was the difference between the whiskey and Castiel: one could easily numb away his pain, letting him be at peace for a few hours. The other was a long, bitter truth that Dean had been unable to swallow, unable to fully accept.

He reached into the cabinet beside his bed, and popped open another _No. 7_.


	7. Remember Me

Remember Me

—Ж—

"_Remember me when you're out walking_  
><em>When the snow falls high outside your door<em>  
><em>Late at night when you're not sleeping<em>  
><em>And moonlight falls across your floor<em>  
><em>When I can't hurt you anymore…<em>"

- Tim McGraw | Please Remember Me

—Ж—

He had found the note three weeks after the angel's leaving. It was tucked away in the cupboard where Dean kept his stash of _No. 7 Tennessee Whiskey_. He wondered how he had never seen it before; it had been written on a sticky note, in the angel's loopy, almost girly handwriting and stuck to the inside of one of the clouded windows. A bloody thumb print marred the top corner where Castiel had pressed to get it to stick. It wasn't a long note, or overly emotional. It wasn't much of anything, really. Castiel had, in fact, written three simple, painful words: 'Please remember me'.

Dean snarled as he snatched the note off the cabinet, his eyes flicked the waste bin a few feet away. Finger began to curl the paper, to erase the last remnants of the angel ever being in the house, when he stopped. His eyes flickered back to his beside table, where the picture of them sat, bloodied and grinning stupidly, sitting atop the Impala's hood. He grabbed another bottle and shut the cupboard. Sitting on his bed, Dean starred out of the large bay window that took up most of the opposite wall. Outside, heavy rains crashed against cold glass. Blurry eyes starred down at the note. Why did have to leave? Why couldn't he stay, and they could make it work?

Why had Dean been too much of an asshole, and push Castiel away, instead of making an effort to ask for forgiveness?

As Dean swung his head back and unceremoniously downed half the bottle, he knew deep down that one thing was for certain: no matter what the future held for them, there was no way in Hell that Dean would ever forget that trench-coat-wearing, blue-eyed angel that had showed him what it really meant to love.


	8. Holidays

Holidays

—ж—

It's snowing outside, and Sam can't help but remember Cas's first Christmas. They had spent the previous two days tirelessly explaining to Castiel the traditions surrounding the tree, the holly and mistletoe, the candy canes. Sam's favorite moment had been watching Dean as he attempted to explain why they had "skewered" an angel atop the tree, and Castiel's reaction when he discovered it was no one he knew after nearly two hours of intense investigation. Later, after the small tree in Bobby's living room had been properly decorated, they had introduced Castiel to hot chocolate, and he had left Dean alone with the awkward ethereal being while he helped Bobby cook their Christmas dinner.

It's snowing outside, and all Sam can hear is Dean's whiskey-induced snores. There is no Christmas music playing the house, no brightly lit fur in Bobby's living room. The holly and mistletoe and ornaments remain tightly wrapped in newspaper, packed away in the recesses of Bobby's attic. Bobby is not laughing in the kitchen cooking Christmas dinner; his _'Kiss the Cook_' apron is hanging on the peg by the stove. He has not worn it since the accident. There are no bright bulbs framing the outside of the house, no warm atmosphere. No holiday cheer. Instead, a dark silence has taken residence where smiles once lived, and instead of holiday movies, Sam sits on the leather couch clutching a beer and watching a news report about a hit-and-run during holiday shopping at the local mall. The living room is dim; Dean doesn't like a bright house anymore. The shadows in his heart have moved to take the whole place, and the small table lamp is all Sam can do to keep himself from drowning in his brother's sorrow.

It is snowing outside, and despite the roaring fire and heavy flannel shirt, Sam has never felt colder, or more alone.


End file.
